Oh, the weather outside is...

...frightfully bland.

I found this poem a few months ago and have been wanting to post it, but I wanted to wait until it snowed. Unfortunately, it doesn't look like that's happening any time soon. 57 degrees in December...sheesh! Perhaps we can all go to a snowy place in our minds when we read.

Leavings
by Robin Robertson
Still sleepwalking through her life, I wrap her up and we go through the snow that fell all night and all through this Christmas morning: her trainers barely denting the whitened lawn, her two strides for every stride of mine. Leaving her home to the warmth of the house I step back out, and see where my footprints turn and walk through hers, the other way—following the trail of rabbit and deer into the unreachable silences of snow. I can bring nothing of this back intact. My face is smoke, my body water, my tracks are made of snow. The next morning is a dripping thaw, and winter is gone from the grass—except for a line of white marks going nowhere: the stamped ellipses of impacted snow; everything gone, leaving just this, this ghost-tread, these wafer-thin footsteps of glass. Poem from www.poets.org. Thanks to Pieter for the photo of Colgate/Taylor Lake.